


Legacy

by zealousprince



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M, Marauders Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:07:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zealousprince/pseuds/zealousprince
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sirius has a legacy from another time. Remus has cleaning woes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the R/S Small Gifts 2011. As ever, thanks to [Phiso](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Phiso/pseuds/Phiso) for the beta <3

 

**Legacy**

  
The closet of his childhood was deep and dark and full of secrets: whispers in the dusty velvet, murmurs in the tarnished silver clasps and the precious sharp-cut emeralds.

It was where he spent countless hours as a child, just sitting and touching his family’s relics, fabrics and fixings of another time. For all he knew, one of these old robes could have belonged to Salazar Slytherin himself – although if one did, he supposed it would be displayed proudly in the lobby with the austere family portraits, instead of becoming rotten and moth-eaten in the dark.

The contents of this closet, if nothing else, were the surest symbol of his family’s age and wealth. For an eight-year-old living in the House of Black as its heir, the most tangible thing  _about_  the House of Black were the clothes, the artifacts that creased and crinkled under his fingers, the jewels that clinked and clattered and collected like dewdrops in his palm.

Of course it was filthy there in the very back of his closet, where even the servants did not deign to clean unless they had been formally ordered to do so. So it was almost natural that the heir should take refuge there at the times where the polish and gleam of the ancient house became too much to bear, when he longed for the House of Black that was dusty and quiet and mysterious, the House of Black that did not ring with his mother’s voice in the immaculate darkened halls.

It was his secret, his and the house’s – and the  _House’s_  – something he shared neither with his parents nor with Regulus, who back then still clamoured for his attention in the most innocent, uncomplicated way.

It was how Sirius found himself raised not by Orion and Walburga, but by the ancient and noble House of Black itself.

=====

  
For someone who dresses and grooms himself in such a fussy, old-fashioned manner, Sirius is shockingly untidy.

Sometimes Remus feels like he spends entire evenings just going round the shared flat, straightening and sorting and reshelving and discarding their accumulated things. He doesn’t complain often, not after the years spent at H–––– Academy as a dormmate and friend to the three sloppiest students in attendance between ’71 and ’78, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get under his skin. Remus is relaxed about most things concerning home-keeping, but the current location of the cutlery drawer, the laundry, and his uni textbooks versus their actual  _designated_  locations is not one those things.

He’s almost inclined to understand the impulse for uncleanliness where James and Peter are concerned, since they pretty much act the part of slobs anyway, but Sirius’ continued refusal to lift even one finger to do any sort of cleaning is a complete mystery. Remus knows he’s capable of it, has seen him do it when hounded, but getting the process underway is very much like pulling teeth. It’s almost like Sirius  _enjoys_  the mess, revels in it like a dog in its own filth.

It’s a truly disgusting metaphor to indulge in, but it’s accurate.

The worst is Sirius’ room. It looks like a battlefield of silk and velvet, of tarnished brass buckles and faceted multicoloured jewels. Lace cuffs fairly explode from the open drawers, and several pairs of custom leather wingtips and satin spats lie haphazardly on the closet floor. Stone-encrusted rings and earrings sit in gleaming piles on top of the dresser, some of them novel, others much, much less. It’s like an army of dandies had ridden through, discarding their extravagant eighteenth century designer wardrobes on the way.

Remus would peg anyone else owning such a room as careless of the contents within, but this is Sirius, and  _everyone_ knows how much he cares about those clothes. He never really explains why, merely waves a dismissive hand (“Just one of those things”) when questioned. So everyone drops it, and Sirius continues to delight in his own foppishness and mess, and Remus continues to clean with an expression of abject despair.

It could be worse, Remus supposes, as he kneels on the sitting room floor to haul a pile of mismatched socks and a teacup from under the sofa. They could have a smaller flat, or have to share rooms, any situation where spillage of one’s things into someone else’s space would be inevitable.

They could be sleeping together, Remus thinks with a giddy crooked grin, instead of simply and awkwardly flirting over take-away. If they were, he really would have to share a room with Sirius, and then he would never find peace from the mess.

He decides not to think about that, any of that, at least until their first real kiss.

=====

  
Walburga found the closet when Sirius was ten years old.

He had not intended for her to find it. Why should he, when she was the one ruining his daytime hours with noise and her frenzy of cleaning? When she was not hissing at him to straighten his clothes or snapping at him to check his posture or yanking his left ear as punishment for some minor misdeed, she always seemed to be cleaning: wiping, dusting, scrubbing, polishing. The house was always spotless and his mother always smelled of lemons and disinfectant. The smells clung to her like a miasma, colouring his childhood in a way the rest of the old house never could. His memories were marked by the sense memory of the scent,  _invaded_  by it, and by the fainter, mustier, warmer smell of the ancient linens and silks and laces of the closet.

Walburga found the closet as she was pursuing Sirius one day, intent upon pinching his already sore little ear to impress upon him the meanness of his latest display of cheek. Even as a child, Sirius berated himself as he crouched in the very back of the closet, knowing his mother would find him before she had even entered the room. And she did.

She froze for a long moment after throwing open the heavy closet door, the sound of Sirius’ name dying from her lips. Sirius could only sit curled up in the farthest corner, staring up at his mother’s troubled expression, unable to utter a word. His presence in the closet had parted all the new school suits and costly brand-name play clothes and had revealed the relics underneath.

His mother looked at the things for a long time, standing wordlessly by the door, her left hand with its myriad of polished rings hanging limp by her side. Then, slowly, carefully, she reached into the closet to grasp the sleeve of Sirius’ favourite one, a centuries-old item with ample sleeves and embroidery delicate as spider silk and round silver buttons and a tuft of lace at the collar.

Finally, tired of the suspense, Sirius mustered up the courage to whisper, “Maman?”

Walburga’s face altered at the sound, became closed off, no longer wondering and vulnerable, and she abruptly withdrew her hand like the smooth fabric had burned her. Then she slowly looked down to Sirius’ upturned face.

She said, “Some day, you’ll fit into them. Your father never wanted them.”

Unthinkingly, Sirius recited one of his father’s favourite platitudes: “A man’s worth can be measured by the cut of his suit.”

Walburga smiled at that, swiftly, unexpectedly. Her gaze lingered on the fine, aged clothes and baubles, then she turned and left. Sirius did not leave the closet until he could no longer hear her high heels clicking on the immaculate floorboards.

=====

  
Remus starts seeing Sirius formally – no more of the dancing around, the stolen glances, or the aborted touches – in ’80, during their second year of uni. It’s mostly a secret, because Sirius values his privacy rather a lot and Remus dislikes trouble rather a lot, which suits them both just fine. They consider hiding it from James and Peter, who are wary of queers in the way that most adamantly heterosexual young men their age are, but as is the way of these things, they end up finding out anyway. James goes a frightening shade of purple and Peter sort of gapes, but afterwards they are both quick to reassure them that nothing has shattered the solid rock of their friendship, and that Remus and Sirius are free to shag whomever they please, even if it is each other, as long as they keep it down.

Lily only looks at them like she’s known all along, probably because she has, and returns to her linguistics paper.

Three and a half weeks in, Remus decides that dating Sirius isn’t so bad. For one thing, he has suddenly acquired a lot more leverage when it comes to making Sirius do his share of the cleaning – though later, Peter will casually remark that Remus has had that “leverage” for quite some time, which will cause Remus to bury his nose in his anthropology notes and Sirius to escape to his room to make an even bigger mess.

Their present romantic involvement doesn’t stop Sirius from being an outright slob, but he does make tiny, occasional efforts to be a less disgusting flatmate. Once, he helps Remus scrub their filthy bachelor’s bathroom, and twice he volunteers to hop down and do their laundry. It does slip his mind to actually distribute the laundry afterwards instead of setting it up semi-permanently on the ratty sitting room sofa, but it’s a detail Remus is willing to overlook as he’s kissing him thank you. It’s somehow easier to overlook the little things when Sirius looks at him from behind his fringe, sets his fingers under his chin, and smiles, the genuine stones on his rings glinting to complete the picture.

He knows it too, clever bastard.

=====

  
When Sirius left, he brought it all with him.

It was most likely the most impractical instance in the history of teenage fugues, but he could not make himself leave all the precious cloths and gems behind when they were all he had left of “family” and “love”. He began by only choosing one shirt, one pair of ancient cufflinks, one dull-shining pendant, but before long he found himself stuffing his suitcase with crinkling silk and rippling lace, and when the suitcase was full he ran to retrieve his sports bag, his pillowcases, and the spare pillowcases in order to fill them too.

In the end, he left almost everything of his and brought almost everything of the House of Black. He left the closet door wide open, after standing in front of it for ten minutes simply marveling at the small space, so unlike the vault-like haven of his childhood memories.

On Regulus’ bed, he left a satin shirt fitted to his brother’s slim frame, an embroidered handkerchief, and a tarnished emerald and silver pin. He also left the only note indicating his presence and departure:  _Reg, take care_ , in curling, outdated script.

On Mother’s vanity, among her trinkets and creams, he left a single pendant, the oldest one, from the looks of it. It was a plain thing on a simple silver chain, stained with age and weathered with time, and embossed with the arms of the House of Black and the slogan  _Toujours Pur_. Always pure and clean. Always spotless.

He stole his father’s pocket watch, the only heirloom in Orion’s possession, kept imprisoned in a drawer in the dark, unwound.

He took the tube with all his things, looking like a charity case with his full-to-bursting bags huddled close to him. James picked him up at the end of the line, ready with a half-smile and a slap on the shoulder, his closest family from then on.

=====

  
Remus sees Sirius standing by the university’s north gates one afternoon, dressed in a laced and ruffled white shirt he’s almost certain he’s never seen before, and in a slim-fitting waistcoat and trousers. He’s standing just outside the campus proper, gazing in with his arms crossed and his chin jutting out in a familiar stance of indecision or indignation or both.

It’s finals week, meaning Remus hasn’t seen hide nor hair of any of his flatmates, and the conspicuous lack of boyfriend in his daily life is seriously starting to wear on his mood and sense of propriety. He trots forward eagerly with the intention of platonically accosting Sirius in a way that will appease aspects of his libido without drawing attention to them in public, but he stops short when Sirius turns and it’s  _not_  Sirius, but someone who looks eerily like him.

They lock eyes and stare at each other for the space of a breath, then Remus says, “...Regulus?”

Regulus says, “ _You_.”

Regulus is two and a half years younger than Sirius, not quite university-aged, so unless he’s scouting future educational prospects, there’s really only one reason he would be here.

“Where’s my brother?” Regulus asks abruptly.

“Erm, he’ll be in his World History final by now.”

“World history?” Regulus repeats, so dumbfounded that he momentarily uncrosses his arms. “Why in God’s name would he study history?”

Remus grins swiftly, hoping he doesn’t look as awkward as he feels. “You know, I’ve asked him that exact same thing, but all he ever tells me is ‘just one of those things’. Can’t get a decent word out of him on the subject, but he’ll be happy to tell you about noble fashion fads of the Regency era in excruciating detail.”

Regulus mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “prick” as he glares out across the campus green at the milling students and the brick and stone buildings. The resemblance between him and Sirius is uncanny: they have the same profile, the same regal bearing, the same sharp grey eyes and pointed chin. The only real difference between them is that Sirius’ expressions are always open, laughing, and free, whereas Regulus’ are very much closed.

They’ve been standing at the gates for a bit too long now, as made apparent by the stiffening of Regulus’ body language and the shuffling of Remus’ feet. Finally, Regulus decides to spare them further agony and uncrosses his arms with determination, only to flail around with his hands for a few seconds like he can’t figure out what to do with them. The gesture is so  _Sirius_  that Remus almost laughs, but has the common sense to bite his tongue instead. He doesn’t really want to know how Regulus will react if he thinks someone is laughing at him, or worse, comparing him to his brother.

Regulus finally settles his hands on the front of his waistcoat and pulls, once, to straighten it. Then he clears his throat, a very precise sound that makes Remus stand at attention before he can stop himself. Regulus jumps a little and looks at him oddly but otherwise doesn’t comment.

“I should be going,” he says instead, his voice pitching lower as though in an effort to counteract any lingering adolescent cracking. “Tell my brother…tell him ‘fuck you’ for me.”

“Er. All right.”

“Thank you.”

He turns on his heel and strides away down the sidewalk with a swish of lace and a clack of leather boot heels. He’s really just like Sirius, right down to the dramatic exit. It’s kind of a sad realization, that two people so alike should exist so far apart.

Before he can think, Remus calls out, “Regulus!”

Regulus swerves around, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“What?” he snaps, with his posh, pointed accent.

“He’d be happy to see you,” Remus says, and puts on his best pleading face.

It’s for naught. Regulus’ expression pinches, and he says disdainfully, “You  _would_  think that.”

And with that, he turns back and is really gone.

Later, Sirius emerges from his final in an excellent mood, swinging an unseasonal velvet cloak up onto his shoulders. He makes a beeline for Remus, who has been loitering by the classroom’s door for the past twenty minutes, and smiles brilliantly as he approaches.

“Greetings, my good lad,” Sirius says, which combined with the subtle two-fingered touch to Remus’ forearm and the glint in his eyes actually means “I want to shag you stupid”. Remus agrees with his own eyes and they fall into step towards the gates.

Remus glances around as they leave campus, looking for some sign of Regulus, but he’s long gone.

Sirius is hanging onto Remus’ shirt cuff with the tips of his fingers, confident that the gesture remains hidden in the folds of his cloak. He looks happy.

Remus will tell him about Regulus later.  


 

**The End**


End file.
